“We'll be late,” was all Jameson said before striding down the gangplank.
She was tempted to throw something at him, like a piece of furniture, but then she remembered – she was trying to be “nice” Tatum. Not vengeful, angry, spiteful Tatum. Not punch-a-mother-fucker-in-the-head Tatum. She took a couple deep breaths through her nose, then followed after him.
Jameson hadn't bothered waiting for her, and was halfway out of the parking area when she got off the boat. She glared at his back and started heading after him, but she refused to run. When he reached the street, he finally waited till she could catch up.
“That wasn't very polite,” was all Tate said as she walked past him.
“Your phone call was annoying me. I wanted it to end,” Jameson explained.
“You could have just asked, you didn't have to throw it in the fucking ocean,” she pointed out.
“Oh, yes, I should have 'just asked', because you've been so compliant up till now,” he snapped back.
She suddenly burst out laughing, coming to a stop. They were in the middle of a crosswalk and Jameson had to grab her arm, yanking her forward. She stumbled on her heels, but managed to stay upright. He pulled her to a stop on a street corner.
“I'm sorry, I just realized something,” Tate snickered.
“What?” he demanded.
“We argue and fight like an old married couple,” she told him.
“Oh, jesus. Have you been drinking?”
“No. It's just, we never used to snap over stupid shit. It's kind of funny. When we were like a couple, we didn't act like it. Now that we're not anything like a couple, we do act like it,” she wiped at her eyes.
“Maybe you should start drinking.”
Jameson led her to an upscale restaurant that was near the marina. At first, when she saw the maître d' wearing a tux, she worried that she would be underdressed. But as they were taken to a table that sat on the third level, against a railing overlooking a huge dance floor, she saw that lots of people were dressed like her.
“When I said dancing, I was thinking more like a night club,” Tate told him, sitting down as a waiter pushed in her chair.
“Then you thought wrong. Señor ...,” Jameson started talking to their waiter in Spanish. She hadn't realized he spoke Spanish. She knew he spoke German – she had heard him speaking it to Petrushka. How many other languages did he speak? The waiter nodded and scurried away.
“What was all that?” she asked. He took off his jacket and sat across from her.
“I ordered for us,” he told her.
“How do you know what I want?” she responded. Jameson laughed.
“Tatum, I always know what you want.”
She swallowed thickly and looked away. She felt stupid. Since he had come back into her life, ever since she had catered for his party, she had been able to step up to Jameson. Sexy banter used to flow easily between them. Now she felt like her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth.
Just fake it. Act like you're with someone, anyone, else.
“You know what I think you're problem is?” Tate asked, leaning low over the table. His eyes flicked down to her tits and she smiled.
“Enlighten me,” he responded.
“You think what you want is what everyone wants,” she told him. Jameson shook his head.
“No, my problem is I know what I want, and just don't care what anyone else wants,” he corrected her.
“Sounds like a pretty big problem.”
“Only for other people.”
“Still sounds like I'm talking to the devil,” she teased, and was rewarded with his eyebrows drawing together.
“Sometimes, while talking to you, I get the same feeling,” he replied. Tate frowned and shook off his words. She leaned back in her chair and looked over the railing.
“This wasn't the kind of dancing I had in mind,” she changed the subject. She watched as people moved across the huge ballroom floor, in what she assumed was a salsa dance. A live band played upbeat music, and it was nice, but not something that made her want to shake her ass.
“Once it gets late, it'll change. Stop worrying,” he instructed her, then their waiter arrived. A scotch, neat, for Jameson. Sparkling water for Tate.
They watched people dance and made idle chit chat. It was strained at first, but eventually it flowed. Jameson had always been easy to talk to, in a way. The only problem now was that they would be chatting along, and Tate would be enjoying herself, and then a memory would smack her upside the head, like a bad acid flashback. Pool. Whiskey. Supermodel. All a lie. BAM. Conversation dampener. It would take her a couple seconds to get back into the stride of talking, and he always looked at her like he knew exactly what she was thinking, which in turn made her more uncomfortable. She was grateful when the waiter finally showed up with their dinner, till she saw what was on the plate.
“You said you were craving it,” was all Jameson said as he cut in to the steak he had ordered for himself.
“You ordered me lobster,” Tate said plainly, staring at what was probably the biggest lobster she had ever seen.
“Yes.”
“You have awfully high hopes,” she pointed out.
“Only the highest.”
“This lobster could be plated in platinum, and you still wouldn't get any pussy,” Tate warned him. An older couple at the table next to them turned around, but Jameson ignored them.
“I could make you wear that lobster as a hat and I'd probably still get pussy by the end of the night,” he countered.
Tate decided to ignore him. She wasn't going to give anything up, but she did love lobster. And this one was delicious. She dipped the pieces in a buttery garlic sauce, savored every bite. Moaned out loud a couple times. Was contemplating lifting the shell to lick it clean when she realized Jameson was staring at her.
“What?” she asked, glancing down at herself to see if she'd dribbled butter down her front.
“You are the sexiest woman I know,” he replied.
She coughed and laughed at the same time.
“I think there is a supermodel who would very much argue that point,” she managed to choke out. Jameson sighed and pushed his plate aside so he could rest his forearms against the table.
“You love to bring her up, but then change the subject. Let's just get this over with so we don't have to keep going in circles. I left home. I went to Berlin. I ran into her at a function, she was there with a mutual acquaintance. I didn't see her again for a week. I saw pictures of you with your new boyfriend. Then old pictures of you with me. More with him. It made me angry. Then people, employees, were pointing them out to me. I got angrier. So I called her up, I took her to dinner, I took her shopping. I asked her if she wanted to come back to the states with me, for a vacation. She asked about you, I told her you would be fine with it – that's the only lie I've ever told about us,” his voice got serious during the last part.
“Good to know,” Tate whispered, looking anywhere but him. She did not want to be having this conversation.
“Before we even left Germany, I told Pet that there was nothing between her and I, that I just wanted to have fun. She agreed. I was so angry at you, Tate. I thought you had lied to me, about him, about how you felt about me, about everything. I felt played. I am not a man people do that to,” Jameson explained.
“Clearly. I never even thought of trying.”
“I didn't realize that, not until it was too late. Look, she was nothing to me, except a huge mistake. Every interaction I've ever had with her is a mistake. I have said this to her. It doesn't make up for what I did to you, but it's the truth. I didn't care about her then. I don't care about her now. You're the one sitting across from me,” he informed her.
It certainly did not make up for it, at least not in Tate's mind. She sat there, still looking away from him, trying not to cry. It was blunt, and it made him sound like the worst kind of asshole, but in Jameson-speak, it was all very sweet. He had been jealou
s, angry, and upset. He had lashed out. He had been childish, petulant, and mean. He had been hurt. She had unknowingly hurt him.
You can't hurt Satan. This is all part of his game. Note that he said he didn't care about her – but he never said anything about caring for you. Do not lose to him again.
“You know what I think?” Tate began, turning towards him and leaning against the table as well. He quirked up an eyebrow.
“I'm scared to ask.”
“I think you wanted to hurt me. I think you planned it before you even left Boston. I think hurting my body was beginning to bore you – you wanted bigger game. You loved degrading me, now you wanted to do it in front of other people. I think it was fun for you, and I think you enjoyed it,” she called him out. There. Now he knew exactly what she thought about the whole situation.
“Well then. Once again, you would be thinking wrong,” Jameson replied, his tone cool, his eyes hard.
What does it take to get under this man's skin the way he gets under mine!?
“I'm going to dance,” Tate said abruptly.
“Excuse me?” he asked, obviously caught off guard
“Dance. They've turned down the lights, the band is gone,” she explained, scooting back from the table. He looked at her like she was crazy.
“Tate, I think we ne-,” he started, but she held up her hand.
“I don't want to do this with you. Please. Let's just ..., be friends for tonight. Okay? Just friends,” she stressed.
“Tate, in a million years, you and I will never be 'just friends',” Jameson replied in a low voice.
She got up and walked away from the table. She didn't think she could handle a heart to heart with Jameson. He already owned a large piece of real estate on hers, she couldn't afford to give him anymore. One more piece, and that pool in her memories would swallow her whole.
She went downstairs, moved straight onto the dance floor, shoved her way right into the thick of everyone. Wanted to get lost in the people. In the music. She moved her body, working her hips back and forth. It had been a really long time, but Tate still knew how to dance. Her skills had been legendary, back when she had been a bartender. She had spent many a night raking in the cash for shaking her ass. Ang had once tried to convince her to become a stripper, but she couldn't get into the idea.
It wasn't long before a guy moved up next to her. He wrapped his arm loosely around her waist and leaned in close, saying something to her in Spanish. She leaned away and tried her best to communicate via sign language, explaining that she didn't speak Spanish.
“No hablas español?” he yelled over the music. She nodded.
“No. I mean, yes. Si, no hablo español,” Tate finally got it right. He laughed.
“Ah. You are American, yes?” he asked. His Spanish accent wrapped itself around the English vowels. Tate felt a shiver creep across her skin, and she wondered what Jameson was doing, wondered if he could see her.
“Yes, very much so,” she laughed again. The guy nodded.
“I like America, American girls. I was saying, do you want to dance?” he asked again. She flicked her eyes around the room, then nodded.
His name was Alvaro, and he was from Barcelona. He was in Marbella on vacation. He was only twenty-one, but he could dance really well, so she overlooked his age. They chatted while they danced, and when he grew bolder, he wrapped an arm around her waist, taking one of her hands in his free hand. He showed her some basic steps to a rumba. Dipped her once. Let his hand wander lower on her waist.
Tate pulled away after that, keeping it strictly PG-13. She caught sight of Jameson once, at the edge of the dance floor. A flash of angry eyes and a sharp smile, then he was gone. She figured she had pushed her luck far enough. If she went too far, he would drag her off the dance floor, and then she would pull back. Then they would fight again.
And not in the fun way.
Between songs, she made her excuses to Alvaro and left the dance floor. She wandered through the crowd, wondering where Satan had gone. She didn't see him anywhere, and after three circuits of the downstairs, she began to think he had left her. Not a complete shock.
Then she finally spotted him near a small hallway. He was talking to someone, another man in expensive clothing, with a watch even bigger than Jameson's. Through her bartending job, Tate had learned that she could tell a lot about a person by their watch. They could be wearing shit for clothing, but if a man was wearing an Audemars, he was the business.
She started heading towards them, pushing her way through people. But then, at the same time, someone broke away from the crowd and stepped up next to Jameson. A dark shape, a shadow. A nightmare.
I'm so stupid. How can I be Lillith? Lillith was first, and I certainly wasn't that.
Tate thought she was going to faint. Before Jameson, she had never been that kind of girl. Now, he was right. She was all damaged and weepy. She hated that feeling, but she couldn't stop it. The edge of her vision started going black as she watched Petrushka slime against his back, her harpy claw gliding over his shoulder.
He did it again. All of this, all a lie, all a game, he did it again, I knew he'd do it -,
Tate was shocked out of her reverie, however, when Jameson turned to look at who was touching him. He snatched Pet's hand off his shoulder, as if her touch burned him. He yanked her around till she was standing in front of him, and he did not look happy. In fact, he seemed to be yelling about something, as he held fast to her wrist. She tried to take a step towards him, but he held her at bay.
What the fuck is going on?
There seemed to be a lot of yelling. Pet was yelling at him, Jameson was yelling at her, the man in the suit was yelling at both of them. Tate wasn't near enough to hear anything that was being said, not with the music so loud. Jameson pointed a finger in Pet's face, before letting go of her wrist, forcing her backwards. Then he pointed his finger at the man, who just nodded and pulled out a cell phone. Jameson whirled around and stomped off in the opposite direction. The man was on his phone, glaring at Pet. She melted back in to the crowd, and the guy yelled after her. Pointed in her direction as two large men in suits walked up.
Tate turned around and hurried across the dance floor, elbowing people out of her way. She wasn't sure what had just happened, but she could have sworn that it looked like Jameson had been telling Petrushka to fuck off. But what was Petrushka even doing there, if Jameson hadn't invited her? How could she be at the same restaurant as them? Didn't Pet live in Berlin? Didn't she have the whole world as her goddamn playground? Why couldn't Tate get away from this chick!?
Tate broke free of the dance floor and spied some leather couches tucked in a recessed corner, next to a tiny, narrow hall that lead to the bathrooms. She made a beeline for the sofas, just wanting to sit down and breathe. Collect her thoughts, figure out what was going on. But as she stepped down into the sitting area, a large man jumped out of nowhere, holding his arms open in front of her.
“No, go back the way you came,” he grumbled at her with a thick Middle Eastern accent.
“Excuse me?” she bristled, trying to step around him. He matched her move for move.
“This area VIP,” he informed her. Tate snorted.
“No one is even sitting in there,” she pointed out. He shook his head.
“VIP. You go back the way you came,” he repeated. She opened her mouth to tell him where he could go, when someone stepped in between them.
“Where the fuck have you been? I've been looking everywhere for you,” Jameson demanded.
“Uh ...,” Tate answered articulately.
“You cannot be here, please leave!” the security man was snapping.
“We're leaving,” Jameson informed her, ignoring the guard and grabbing her by the elbow. She didn't budge.
“Good, yes, you leave now,” the guard agreed, ushering them away.
“Now,” Jameson growled.
“STOP.”
It came out as a shout, even though she ha
dn't meant it to. Both men stared at her, the security guard looking shocked. Jameson just looked angry.
“I don't have patience for your bullshit, Tate, not right now. I want -,” he started.
“I want to sit down. Please,” she asked. He blinked down at her, his lips pressed into a hard line. She could tell he wasn't happy. Could tell that he really wanted to drag her out of there. By her hair, if necessary.
“I don't think -,” Jameson began again.
She brushed past him. He was blocking the security guard, so she made it all the way to one of the couches before all hell broke loose. The security guard started yelling, which set Jameson off. Jameson never yelled, not unless he absolutely had to, but he did stand toe to toe with the larger man, quietly explaining that he and his guest could sit wherever the fuck they wanted to sit. A second later, the man in the suit from earlier, the one who had also yelled at Pet, showed up. This seemed to settle everything. The security guard slunk away, followed by the suit-man, and then Jameson came and sat down next to Tate.
“Thank you,” she said. He raked his hand through his hair.
“You're not welcome. What the fuck are you doing?” he asked, stretching an arm out across the seat behind her. She kept her eyes trained on the dance floor.
“I just wanted to sit down. I was dancing, I wanted to cool off,” she replied, trying to sound casual.
“Tatum. You're a horrible fucking liar.”
They were interrupted by a scantily clad waitress. She was carrying a bottle of Louis XIII cognac. A gift for Jameson, compliments of the owner of the club. An apology for any distress caused by the staff or guests. Tate's eyes nearly fell out of her head. At home, a bottle cost anywhere from $2,000 to $3,000. The price in Spain, in Euros, in a nightclub ..., she was impressed. Beyond impressed.
The waitress poured out a shot, to taste. Jameson nodded his approval, so the woman filled up two old fashioned glasses, neat, and then left them alone. For the most part, Tate had avoided alcohol ever since her stint in the hospital, but when someone put a drink in front of her worth $166 a pour, she wasn't ever going to say no. Jameson sipped at his drink. She downed hers in one shot.
Separation (The Kane Trilogy Book 2) Page 12
